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These final months of summer in 2012 rightfully belong to our peaches. We have a generous peach tree at the edge of our backyard. It doesn’t get watered, the limbs get hacked off whenever the telephone company has work to do on the lines, but somehow it faithfully produces fruit in its season.

This year, though, the peach tree has blessed us with a huge bounty of peaches, beyond anything it has ever produced before. Every person in our family eats at least an entire peach every day. And the Peanut has added a new word to her limited vocabulary. “Peeshes?” she asks sweetly whenever she wants something to eat.

Not only are this year’s peaches plentiful, they are also utterly and completely delectable. I grew up in Georgia, and I thought I’d had good peaches before now. But, seriously, folks. These peaches put to shame every peach I’ve ever had.

First of all, they are huge–the size of softballs.

Second, they are juicy. We call them “Prufrock Peaches” after T.S. Eliot’s socially awkward hero who is afraid to eat a peach. “Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?”

Third, the pits pop out with ease, and even the skins peel right off with only my fingers.

Fourth, and most importantly, the nectar is as sweet as the sunshine that has blushed their fuzzy skins.

Yes, my friends, these months will go down in our family memoirs as the Summer of the Peach. My only regret is that I haven’t spent more time photographing the joy we are taking in them. When confronted with one of those glowing orbs, my only thought is for eating it, and I’m afraid picking up the camera doesn’t even cross my mind.

Wishing all of you your own golden, end of summer joys.